The Price of Riddles
by General Tao
Summary: The War is on, the price is high.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The Riddle house had remained decrepit and unused since the strange events that had taken place there three years ago. The lawn outside was in complete disorder, the grass overgrown and dried to a crisp gold, the shrubbery multiplying, and the vines creeping over the walls of the house. The structure itself was barely worth mentioning, since the walls were buckling under the heavy weight of the roof, and the mould was eating away at the dying wood. It was the veritable epitome of a haunted house.

And thank Merlin that persona had held up for so many years, otherwise the task at hand would have become that much more difficult and, unfortunately, painful.

The steps to the notorious house were thankfully still intact, the vines slowly digging in to the rough stones, patiently awaiting the day to tear them up. It was upon these steps, now, in the dead of night, that a dark figure stood. The figure itself seemed nothing more than a shadow against the hollows of darkness that surrounded the house and it moved slowly and hesitantly towards the doorway. Quietly, almost in painful caution, it opened the door. The sound it made wasn't as horrible as expected, even though the hinges had almost completely rusted through.

As it stepped into the threshold of the creaky-floored entrance, the figure stilled. Breathing silently, it surveyed its surroundings. It seemed that the wild nature outside had finally made its way into the edifice. The floor was strewn with live and dead leaves which protruded through the warped floor boards. Something small and nocturnal shuffled across the hallway in front of the figure, which shifted noticeably at the sound.

"Jumpy, aren't we?" asked a cool voice from the other end of the hallway. The figure in the entrance took several startled steps back, its hand reaching out and gripping the door frame.

"Lucius," The figured breathed in a half-relieved, half-cautious tone.

"Tell me if I'm wrong, Mr. Price, but it seems you're reticent about this mission. Taking your time with it, in fact… Avoiding coming back with bad news, are we?"

The figure (presumably Price) near the doorway stiffened and almost mechanically reached in to its pocket, removing a wand which shone slightly from the little light there was. There was a soft muttering, and the tip of the wand ignited with a warm hazy point of light, which flew lazily towards the ceiling where it hovered and was soon followed by others. In a few moments the entire hallway was lit dimly, but with enough to see the decomposing state of the plaster on the walls and the doorways along them. It suddenly became apparent why Price had been so shadowy outside: the cloak he wore was shimmering slightly with the dim repetition of the scene behind it, making for a chameleon-like camouflage.

"I'm here aren't I, Malfoy?" He spat back in a hoarse voice.

Lucius Malfoy, at the other end of the hallway, was wearing a similar cloak, but the hood had been lowered to reveal an aging man with silvery hair and cold eyes. He stood with a stiff assertiveness that one only sees in the most powerful of aristocrats; his arms crossed over his chest and his chin slightly lifted. The left corner of his thin frowning lips twitched slightly, either out of apprehension or impatience. Perhaps both.

"Then get on with it," he replied through gritted teeth.

This seemed to spurn Price on, who at once lost his previous demeanor of defiance and stepped further in to the hallway. In a swift movement he lowered his hood, revealing a youngish looking man of about thirty with long wavy brown hair and eyes to match. He had a strong jaw which was covered with a prominent shadow of, amazingly, red stubble.

"Where is it?" Price asked urgently, brown eyes shifting nervously between the two doorways he had been coincidentally standing between.

"How am I to know? It was your charge; you must have been given proper instructions. Just find it so we can leave," Lucius' words had been spoken quickly as he examined a rather dirty-looking pile of debris that must have fallen from the ceiling months prior.

Price nodded assertively, but waited a moment before actually moving. He turned towards the doorway on his left and walked in, soon followed by the points of light and the sounds of Lucius' footsteps. The room he entered was furnished with antiques, which were in an understandable state of disarray. Once again, the plants had begun winding their way through the windows and floors. Price looked around in honest surprise, his steps faltering.

"How did the plants grow so quickly?" He asked, knowing Lucius was standing in the doorway behind him. Price hadn't thought of it before, but the last time he was here, scarcelytwo years ago, the interior had looked nothing like this. Certainly it had been neglected, but to see such a rapid progression of decay…Well, needless to say it was puzzling.

"Stop dawdling Price, and get it!" Lucius snapped, stepping with loud confident steps in to the room. He gestured towards a small picture frame next to a closed-in fireplace on the opposite side of the room. "There. Now do it."

Price swallowed down a restricting collection of bile that had settled in his throat. _It has to be done_, he thought forcefully, unable to stop his hands from nervously fidgeting. He walked over to the picture frame, the points of light above his head shifting slightly to accommodate.

The picture was grimy and small, about the size of a square jewelry box. Price regarded it quietly, his brown eyes examining the heavy brushstrokes of the oil paint. It was quite well-painted in an amateurish way, and the signature at the bottom was elegant and undeniably feminine. He read it over and over in his mind…

_Deanna Valrose._

There was no date. The scene the painting depicted was that of the house he stood in now, but from outside in the daylight. The house was in the very prime of its existence, standing almost proudly on the well-manicured lawn, surrounded by magnificent rose bushes. Standing in front of the house was a handsome young man, perhaps in his late teens, with dark hair and a charming smile. As Price watched, a soft breeze rustled the man's hair and the bushes behind him. It was all quite pretty in a soft and demure way. Price licked his lipsnervously, leveling his wand with the painting and whispering softly.

"Servicio," He said, taping the simple wooden frame once with the tip of his wand.

For a moment he felt a sudden burst of bewildering fright at the thought that it might not have worked. Then, quietly, the door of the small house in the painting opened revealing a dark entrance. With one last hesitant glance over his shoulder at Lucius, Price raised his index finger to the entrance door, pressing it against the paint firmly.

What he was met with was searing pain which spread white hot from his finger tip through the very lengths of his body. If later asked how it felt, he might say that it was as if his bones had liquefied and reformed in to sharp needles…But it was nowhere near that simple.

To Lucius Malfoy, this lasted something like five seconds. To Price, it was like five decades. Price's form, at first stuck by his hand to the painting, opposite hand against the wall and pushing vainly against it, soon crumpled in a heap on the wooden floor. Lucius stepped over his quivering form, gracefully reaching up towards the painting, taking it off the wall and tossing it carelessly to the side. Where there should have been nothing but more wall, there was a small square-shaped hole where an object wrapped in fine red silk lay covered in dust. This was what Lucius now took up; placing it carefully in his robes before walking back towards the doorway (again avoiding the breathing pile of dark cloaks that was Price).

Just before leaving, Lucius turned to the dark heap and smiled like a snake.

"Thank you, Price. I couldn't have done it without you."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Faxon Price lay still, listening to the light popping sound as Lucius Malfoy disapparated, thereby exacting his uncanny escape from the scene of the crime. For a moment Faxon simply listened to the sounds of the old house surrounding him, but soon even these mundane noises were small conciliation against the still throbbing pain in his limbs.

"That," he began in a hoarse shaking voice, "was not what I was expecting."

Slowly he raised himself off the dusty floor, dried leaves and dust bunnies clinging to his robes and hair. When he finally got to his feet there was a rush of blood to his head, making him wince as a rather wicked migraine began its work. The hand he had used to unlock whatever spell was in the painting had begun a persistent throbbing of intense pain. He suddenly became very dizzy and had to sit down in an old armchair that stood against the wall behind him. Pulling back the folds of his black robes, he examined his hand.

It wasn't as bad as he had expected. No, in fact, he was quite right to say it was much worse.

His hand was blackened up to his wrist, as if he had placed it in a cloud of billowing smoke. He tried moving it and another electric shock of pain shot through him, making him cry out in the dank and disturbing room. The points of light above him were fading, and in the next few seconds he was plunged in to total darkness, leaving him completely alone in his unbearable pain. With some trouble, he had retrieved his wand from where he had dropped it and held it in his other hand. With an uneasy flick, he disapparated. The feeling of every atom of his body disconnecting and spreading out was an almost welcoming feeling next to the constant pain. Soon he felt himself re-condense and found he was sitting on the edge of his bed in his flat.

Without another thought he fell back, his good hand clutching the throbbing blackened one over his chest, and was swept in to an uneasy sleep.

Before he knew what was happening he was hearing the blaring siren of the magicked grandfather clock next to his nightstand. He opened his eyes groggily, watching the pale slanting light of morning slash across his ceiling. Images of the night before came back to him in shameful detail, making him shut his eyes as if it would block them out. He could hardly believe he had to get up and go about his everyday life...But then, he didn't realize exactly what day it was, did he? Not until the sounds of the hexed grandfather clock faded away did he truly understand that today was the day he started his job at-

"Hogwarts!" He yelled, sitting up abruptly and yelping with the strain. The next few minutes he spent attempting to get dressed with one hand, which left him unprepared for the challenge tying his shoes presented. His hand was less darkened than the night before, but the pain was still apparent. Eventually he set off for King's Cross, shoe laces untied and luggage tucked under his arms. Lucky enough for him, Faxon's flat was only a muggle subway stop away, although he didn't bother with such troublesome modes of transportation. He knew it was risky, but soon he was apparating in a bathroom stall at the famous train station. As he stepped out he was met with the unwavering and shocked gazes of three women who were re-applying their makeup at the mirrors.

Faxon cleared his throat loudly, attempting a small smile. He glanced at his own reflection in the mirror and realized at once that their apprehension was valid.

He looked positively wild, with his near-shoulder length wavy hair a mess, and his reddish stubble looking even more out of control than the night before. His shirt had been buttoned wrong, leaving a patch of his white undershirt exposed. His tie was askew and his blazer was inside out. He seemed positively wild-eyed and was panting as if he had been running for a mile.

This all seemed to be working out of his favor.

With one last charming smile he sprinted out of the ladies' public bathroom, leaving the occupants speechless, and towards the stations nine and ten. In a sprint he sped through the magical barrier and in a matter of seconds, which surprised even him, he was sitting on the scarlet train that was still familiar to him even after all these years.


	3. Chapter 3

((Sorry I haven't updated, to the few who have actually read the chapter. I realize the latter update was short, and probably not satisfying, but it's only due to the poor quality of my computer and the problems it has presented. The next update will be more satiating, I promise. ))

Chapter 3

Everything seemed to be going by in a whirring rush of sounds, tastes, and colors. Faxon barely had enough time to sleep, what with the impending apprehension and the ever-present throbbing of his hand. His first appearance at Hogwarts (he later learned) seemed to stir up some curiosity and, oddly, mistrust. He recalled with some confusion the first night he had arrived at the wizarding school.

The train ride, despite some bickering students that had decided to sit in his compartment, had been rather uneventful. Only when he had finally decided to stop trying to sleep and perhaps take a look around, did he find his first jolt of unadulterated panic. A young man of perhaps seventeen walked by his compartment, an awkward smile on his pale face. He had dark messy hair, bright green eyes behind round-rimmed glasses, and a thin if not slightly unhealthy look about him. He was soon followed by a young lady with frizzing brown hair, who seemed to be trying to get his attention with an authoritative and almost panic-stricken manner. Straggling ungracefully behind the latter was a red-haired boy whose height made him gangly and somewhat clumsy.

Faxon knew these three. Knew them better, perhaps, than most of the students in their grade.

He could feel the blood draining from his face. Nay, his whole body. Instinctually he clutched his blackened right hand closer to his body, hiding it in the folds of his plain black robes. The boy with the black messy hair glanced in his direction right before continuing down the hallway, probably in search of someone. When their eyes met, Faxon felt a flash of emotion that he couldn't discern. Something like anxiety, envy and shame rolled up in to an arrow of piercing strength.

The students in the compartment began looking in his direction now. No doubt he looked like something out of an old horror movie, his pale face shining with sweat. He ended by covering the whole thing up with a few violent coughs, hoping the idea of him being sick would explain it away, and if not, then at least clear the compartment.

When he had finally arrived at Hogwarts, he felt almost refreshed. He had seen the goal he had been assigned, and had managed not to make a complete fool of himself. He was powerfully tempted to fall on the bed in his small intimate quarters and take a long night's rest, maybe look over his papers and prepare for his first day. However, the beginning of the year feast was already starting, and so he had little time to look himself over in the mirror before dashing towards the Great Hall.

Being here again reminded him of so many things, so much, in fact, that he could barely focus on just one. It smelled as he remembered; the cold almost metallic scent of the old stones of the walls, the dust on the suits of armor and the sumptuous smell of the food coming from the Hall. How he had loved this school, loved it and hated it, one way or another.

The sorting hat ceremony had been calm enough, except for the fainting of a young girl with blonde braids. She was awakened before long, though, and soon enough Dumbledore had stood up to make his speech.

"Welcome back," He had begun, his clear blue eyes scanning over the staring crowd of students. "My warnings, I fear, must be made once again. The war has gotten worse, as most of us know, and it is difficult to sometimes know in whom to trust. Let it be known, however, that in order to trust others, we must first trust ourselves. Now, as most know, the Forbidden Forest is just as its name suggests, therefore there will be no students allowed to enter it. All Hogsmeade visits have been cancelled-"

There was a loud groan from the crowd, including rather irritated looks from some of the staff. Faxon had been sitting between Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape, neither of whom seemed to find this news worthy of reaction. He had been to school with Snape, who had been a few years above him, but didn't know him well. Professor McGonagall, however, had become somewhat of a new acquaintance. In the few moments that passed the groans had died down, and Dumbledore had begun once again.

"-I realize that it is a disappointment, but in these times they simply cannot be allowed. Now, we have organized for different in-school pleasantries in order to make up for the loss, and hope you will all cooperate. Now, enjoy the feast, and have a good year."

Dumbledore sat down, and soon the Hall was all clanking and chatter. Faxon had felt momentarily bewildered. Was there to be no announcement of his arrival to the Hogwarts staff? No introduction to the newest Professor? He sat there, the food around him hardly enticing him in his distracted state.

"Something wrong, Price?" A cold voice had asked somewhere near the vicinity of Faxon's right ear, making him jump. He had found himself looking directly in to the black liquid eyes of Severus Snape, who was staring at him with such intensity Faxon felt like he had shrunk about two feet.

"Nothing, sir," Faxon replied with an easy smile, helping himself to freshly baked bread. He let his eyes roam the Hall, falling once more on that boy with messy hair, that boy with the honest green eyes, that boy who lived…

"Nervous?" Snape asked, eyebrows rising in a condescending manner. Faxon cleared his throat and looked back over at his colleague.

"More excited, I would say," he replied cheerily, and this seemed to disgust Snape enough that the conversation had ended there.

And then that was when the whirring blur of time had started, and before Faxon knew it, three school days had passed, and he was on his way to teach his seventh class on a cold clear Thursday morning. His first class had gone fairly smoothly, the second years seemed keen to listen, although there were the usual troublemakers. But it was this present morning that he was dreading the most as he walked quickly down the third floor corridor, glancing at his watch, and holding sloppily organized folders under his right arm. It was the seventh years, this morning, and he was hopelessly nervous. The older they got, the bolder, or so he had learned from both professional and personal experience.

Soon enough he had reached his classroom door, and taking a moment to straighten up and take a calming breath, he finally opened it.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

As Faxon stepped in to the somewhat stuffy classroom, the sound of the usual chatter stopped so suddenly it felt as if he had flicked a switch. He smiled feebly, making his way to the desk, becoming increasingly uncomfortable while feeling all eyes following him as he placed his papers on the already chaotic-looking writing table. Slowly he turned around, a sheet of parchment in his left hand (his blackened right hand was hidden rather casually in the folds of his robes) and began naming all the names of those who were supposed to be attending the class. He made a point of looking up at every student, trying to quickly memorize their faces as their names were called out. When he landed on 'Potter, Harry' he made a point of not reacting, and simply looked up at the young man sitting next to the two that he saw on the train, before continuing.

"All right, welcome to your seventh year Charm class-" There was a murmur that stopped Faxon short as he watched the students look over at their neighbors meaningfully or whisper something he couldn't quite catch.

Well, that was a strange kind of greeting.

Just then a hand shot up in to the air with an almost stunning amount of enthusiasm, and Faxon made a small gesture that the question should be asked. It was the girl with the longish bushy hair, who spoke in the same authoritative if not lightly pompous manner that he had witnessed so briefly on the train.

"Sorry, Professor, but we were under the impression that you were going to be the one teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts? Where is Professor Flitwick?" She asked, her hand lowering after she had finished. Most of the class seemed to be waiting for Faxon's answer, and were staring at him hard.

"Yes, well, as it were, um, well I thought most of you had been told but-"Faxon cleared his throat, hoping silently it would rid him of his non-eloquent stuttering. "Well, Professor Flitwick has resigned from his previous post as Charms teacher and I have been hired to replace him in his teachings. Now-"

The bushy haired girl's hand shot up once again, and Faxon again gestured for her to continue, although slightly less enthusiastically than before. "May I ask, Professor, who is teaching Defense against the Dark Arts?" She asked.

This seemed to be interesting them more than Faxon had ever thought. Certainly, there had been some confusion as to who was teaching what, seeing as he seemed to be the only new addition to the teaching staff. "Miss Granger, I am honestly very aggrieved to be telling you that I have not the foggiest idea of what might be going on. Anywhere, in fact. You'll come to find that I have almost no knowledge outside my subject."

This seemed to please most of the students as they giggled softly. It also seemed to satiate whatever curiosity Hermione Granger felt, as a soft blush invaded her cheeks. Faxon felt a small pang of guilt as he saw this, but the problem had to be dealt with, and finally the class seemed to settle down.

"Now, who can tell me what a supermino charm is? Yes, Mister Thomas?"

The rest of the class went by without many other diversions, and soon enough Faxon was dismissing them for lunch. As he sat as his desk, looking through some of the second year charm homework before lunch, there was a scuffle of sorts outside his classroom door. Brushing it off as just a few loud first years, Faxon continued reading through Carla Demoine's definition of a reducto charm. However, when a loud bang from the hallway made his door shudder and vibrate for a few moments, it made him pay attention (or maybe it was the now freshly spilled coffee in his lap). Growling slightly he stood up and took out his wand, holding it rather casually as he opened his door and stepped out, mouth opening as he prepared to make several demands for silence.

As his mouth opened, though, a bright flash of light passed directly in front of him, making the air in front of his nostrils smell burnt and smoky. He whipped around in the direction of the flash of light and saw one of his students from the previous class. He was a tall and pale young man with light blonde hair and, at the moment, a furious look on his contorted face. Faxon was nearly hit by another green jet of light which passed in front of him, and as he turned in the other direction he saw none other than Harry Potter, who also looked furious, but had a more concentrated look on his face. The very air sizzled as a few more jets of light were passed, each student deftly avoiding or dispelling the curses as they came.

"Aren't they supposed to stop when they see a Professor?" He muttered in frustration as he quickly stepped between the dueling wizards. "Protego!" He yelled, creating a quick shield over himself. Harry seemed shocked and quickly put his wand down. The other boy ('_Draco Malfoy_' Faxon thought venomously as he recognized the young man) yelled one more curse, which bounced off of Faxon's spell shield and absorbed harmlessly in to the stone wall, where it left green congealing ooze.

"Anyone care to explain what is going on here?" Faxon asked, looking from one boy to the other, barely keeping his voice from bursting out in a yell.

"I think I will, Price," A deep drawling voice called out, reverberating on the walls. Fax had never heard his name stated with such obvious contempt and turned in Draco's direction to find Snape walking towards them from down the hallway.

"Oh, simply _marvelous…"_ Faxon murmured. He heard a bit of soft laughter close behind him and turned slightly to see Harry standing near his side, coughing a bit to hide his chuckling. Faxon kept his face as blank as possible as he looked over at the boy, and instead settle for a small smile. He was only about an inch taller than him, but he was hardly concentrating on this as Snape finally stepped beside Draco, pushing the boy towards Faxon and Harry for a final confrontation.

A bit of silence fell between the four as Faxon attempted to smile in his usual charming way, and only succeeding in glaring rather coldly at the potions master standing diagonal to him with a smile on his face. Snape's lip curled.

"Well, Price?" He asked, gesturing to both Harry and Draco.

"Oh! Right, sorry," Faxon said, finally understanding what the silence had been about. "Right, the both of you will be serving detention for a week and…Ten points off each house?" He asked hesitantly as he looked up at Snape.

"Fifty," the Slytherin house head intoned, a vicious look invading his dark eyes.

"Twenty."

"Forty."

"Thirty-five."

"Deal," Snape sneered, before grabbing Draco by his sleeve and leading the boy down the hallway, scolding him all the while. Once again a silence fell, in which Faxon cleared his throat nervously.

"So, what exactly happened?" Faxon finally asked calmly, turning towards the famous boy who now stood with some lingering anger in his green eyes.

"Malfoy tried cursing me from behind, when everyone had cleared out. He didn't even give me time to turn around before he started sending one after another. I barely had time to react, sir." He stated, putting his wand away and pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

"Where are your friends? Why didn't they help you?" Faxon asked as he made his way towards his office door, opening it and gesturing for Harry to follow him.

"Hermione dragged Ron to the library, she's been trying to get him to help her recruit members for SPEW early this year," The young man said, following Faxon in and taking the seat in front of the man's desk when he gestured to it.

Faxon took the somewhat shotty looking armchair behind his desk again, watching Harry with as unreadable of an expression as he could. "SPEW?" He asked simply, raising an eyebrow with a bit of a smile on his face.

"Oh, it's a long story," Harry answered, sitting on the very edge of his seat and looking rather stiff.

"You can relax, Harry, Draco's gone now-"

"So you know Draco?"

The question was simple and innocent enough, and yet answer it wrong and his very life could be on the line. _Yes, I know of Draco, _his mind stated rather matter-of-factly, _through his Death Eater father, who is a close colleague of mine. Would you like some tea?_

"Ahem, well, nothing more than what some of the staff have told me. From what I hear, these sudden attacks have been customary in your relationship."

"Yes, well, ever since his father was sent away-"

_And consequently escaped a year later_, Faxon's mind filled in-

"He's been less in to the insulting quips and more in to seething rage."

Faxon nodded knowingly, giving the young man a comforting smile. "Well, I can't know for sure who started it-"

"I swear he did, sir!"

"-I realize, Mr. Potter, but I was not present. Now to be fair, I'll make sure your detention won't be too painful, mostly because detention seems useless to me than any other specific reason. You may go to lunch now, Harry, but do keep an eye out, would you? I can't keep having coffee spilled over me every time a loud noise is heard."

With that he took out his wand and cleaned up the now cooled coffee that had soaked in to his robes and was dripping lightly from his desk top. He looked up and wished Harry a good day, smiling all the while.

"Close the door behind you, would you Harry?"

As the door clicked shut, the smile on Faxon Price's mouth vanished.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been three months.

Three months.

Faxon had clear memories of standing in front of the old and wobbly floor-length mirror in his room, gazing at the man who seemed to unabashedly gaze back. In to his very eyes, no less. These memories consisted of his staring at this disheveled man- hair in need of a cut, his red stubble long gone and now a full beard- and instantly disliking him. Perhaps it was the wrinkled clothing, pale complexion and the additional lines that appeared at the corners of his eyes. Certainly Price had always known himself to be a vain and somewhat shallow person, but no, it was more than this man's appearance…

It was that while those brown eyes stared back, there seemed to be no one behind them. A blank mask- a representation of what a man might look like, but not real. No, never real. He would move closer in at these times, peering directly in to the man's face.

There! Yes! A spark of life, some semblance of a spirit within. He would try his charming smiles at these times, and while generally pleased and quieted by the result, he could not ignore the deepening of the few wrinkles by his eyes and etched in his forehead. He would mumble something along the lines of "Time is so precious" or an equally quixotic "Ah, to be young again."

These were the memories that filled his mind, leaving him day dreaming as he did in his classes, feet up on his desk, the tip of his wand placed boyishly to his mouth as he gazed out of the windows at the cold sunlight. Nothing of the actual hectic events that occurred in between these midnight hours of self-evaluation seemed to be worth remembering.

Well, that is not entirely true.

He remembered his classes with Harry Potter. If only because of the crushing emotions he would get whenever the green-eyed boy would glance his way as he passed his desk with a small wave of the hand, which seemed to show a general respect and admiration since their last brief encounter in the hallway some time before. Often Price would not be able to eat after these moments. It was like something oddly soft and silky but stunningly cold were rubbing his chest bone from the inside- a sickly feeling of emotional nausea would then grip him with an almost audible gasp. It would only last a moment, but in that moment he would suddenly find himself sitting straight up in his chair, feet planted on the ground, with a hand clutching his chest, as if to stultify the calm mercurial beast back in to patience.

But time passed, as it always did. And he found himself wandering the hallways after his one morning class on a Friday, watching the slants of yellow light make even the dustiest suit of armor gleam with old world elegance. He moved lazily, enjoying the sound of his shoes hitting the stone floors and the mysterious echoes that seemed to continue on more than should be normal. Suddenly, he realized there was another pair of shoes interweaving with his echoes, confusing and yet mimicking them perfectly. He turned slowly and saw at once the source of this joining noise.

"Professor Snape! You're looking rather…" He paused, attempting to stop the erupting grin that was boiling beneath the surface of his skin, "…Black-robed today."

"Why thank you, Mister Price," Snape sneered, over-annunciating in a truly liquid and dangerous way. "I have come to inform you of your meeting time tomorrow morning is 7 o'clock. Sharp." Without hesitation Snape turned on his heel and began walking away, and while Price would have been more than willing to allow him to leave, his confusion made him call out as he rather inelegantly caught up.

"So sorry, meeting time? Meeting time for what?"

The gaze this question was met with certainly made Faxon Price re-evaluate his worth as a human being.

"The bazaar, Price," Snape spat out, as if not only Faxon's existence irritated him, but the very idea of a 'bazaar' as well. Faxon simply cleared his throat, not knowing at all about what the potions master was referring to, but being supremely confident in the idea to ask someone less…murderous. Evidently, his confusion showed.

"The bazaar organized for the students this weekend. I assume you realize that Hogsmeade trips have been cancelled?" Faxon bobbed his head soundlessly, "The headmaster has seen fit to invite some well-known friends and craftsmen to set up tents in the dining hall. You are one of the professors to be chaperoning on Saturday."

"Ah, one of those obligatory things, eh?"

Snape's lip curled. "You volunteered."

A silence fell between the two for an awkward amount of time. Just as Faxon was about to open his mouth and respond, he found that his only audience consisted of the kicked-up dust from the turning heel of a potions professor walking away.

"Bazaar it is," he told the dust, the wheels set in motion in his mind. Yes, things would have to begin soon.

Oddly, he found himself smiling.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Faxon Price felt a small flush of pride as he awoke on Saturday morning. He had slept well, which was something of a first since his arrival here, and he had groomed and outfitted himself in a most satisfying way. His weekend robes were casual and simple, but the dark green color seemed to give him something of a less professorial and washed-out appearance; making him look almost boyish. His hair had been trimmed (along with the rust-red of his beard), by Madam Pomfrey, who had been kind enough to do so the night before. It seemed the circumstances that had been so neatly set in place had spurned him to action, and thus he walked with more purpose and determination than he had ever graced the long hallways of Hogwarts with in his own day.

Humming gently as he went along, finally rounding the corner to the Great Hall, he was met with some of the most intimidating ruckus he had ever experienced. Settling a loud class of first years was one thing, however _this_ breadth of noise and music was something of a more chaotic and untamable nature altogether. As he finally stepped through the large doorway, he suddenly became much too distracted to care.

The Hall had quite simply vanished overnight. The ceiling sky that reflected the one outside had matching walls which echoed a small sunny pasture, within which almost every student of Hogwarts seemed to be milling. Tents had been set up along almost all the walls, the house tables cleared off, replaced instead by a round stone sculpture with a multitude of benches and booths lining its circumference. There was one table filled with plates of breakfast foods, which replenished themselves instantly as more and more students helped themselves to the perpetual buffet.

Faxon found himself being more and more drawn in by the colorful and impressive market tents, each one attempting to outdo the other in advertising and glamour. Here a large purple façade shaped to look like a Roman coliseum, the statues occupying the archways throwing sweet-smelling petals to the group of first year girls giggling below. Another was a tall and crooked tower of a tent near the back corner, a chimney gurgling forth multicolored bubbles which danced in the air and repeated the name "Gurgling Gertrude's Gallery of Goodies!" whenever they popped. Minstrels played obviously homemade instruments that made some of the oddest and strangely pleasant noises Faxon had ever heard.

It was an altogether breath-taking experience, and Faxon found himself attempting to memorize scenes so he could faithfully recall them later against the darkness of his closed eyes. He was shocked to see so many students up this early, having been used to waking a handful up in his classroom at this time during the week. And it was while he reached the center of the room, eyes flickering towards all the new distractions, that he found the sound of his own name being repeated by a stern and serious voice penetrate the cackle of excitement.

He looked back down and found the straight and slim figure of Professor McGonagall staring at him, her hands folded in a manner that eliminated any girlishness and made him feel like a student again.

"Professor Price, I will need you to walk the length of the hall once every hour, and to check between the tents for any loitering behavior. Good?" She had a manner of asking, Faxon thought, that seemed to leave no elbow room for debate. He nodded simply and then realized he had not spoken a word to her thus far, and feeling quite rude he put a small amount of effort in.

"Of course, Professor McGonagall"- He could never bring himself to say her first name- "Pray, how are things getting on? Not too difficult to juggle your class with Defence Against the Dark Arts?"

"Not at all, since Professor Snape has been kind enough to take up a few classes to lighten the load, things seem to be moving along quite smoothly."

There was a small silence in which Faxon simply nodded in what he hoped was a sympathetic and understanding way, to which McGonagall gave him a slightly warmer goodbye before heading out of the hall. Faxon found himself watching her leave, his thoughts meandering aimlessly to the curiosities this whole situation had brought. He had been offered the charms position, and certainly he had been gifted in that area when he had studied here, but still, the absence of a real Defence Against the Dark Arts professor puzzled and troubled him more than he would want to admit.

These deeper thoughts, however, were once again swept away by the loud and heinous declaration from a flying toad which croaked an invitation to 'Tether Toad's Ingredients Shoppe, the green and purple tent three from the right!'

The hours that followed were plagued with a kind of broken-up monotony. Faxon would make a walk of the length every hour, inspecting any dark spaces for lewd behavior, occasionally stopping to gaze at shining gizmos, or (at one time) to break up a fight. It was around noon, however, when he was about to take his first break, that trouble truly struck.

Just as his sore and tired foot was stepping out of the large arched doorway, his mind feeling somewhat less optimistic than it had earlier this morning, a large bang made him turn so quickly on his heel that he had to step back several times to regain his balance. All of the noise, happy chatter, and sparkling advertising ceased all at once, a stunned and eerie silence fell over the entirety of the Hall.

All the students seemed frozen, their heads facing towards the center where the stone sculpture with the benches had been placed. The multitude of still heads were blocking the event from his sight, and in a slow and dumbstruck state Faxon began to slowly weave his way through the bodies, eventually coming to his senses and pushing a little more quickly through the crowd.

His heart was racing, blood pounding in his temples, his eyes, his very hands, one of which was clutching his wand so tight he had to tell himself to loosen the grip. He began breathlessly mouthing the words 'what is it, what is it, what is it' in a kind of panicked and rushed mantra, the words melding together in to simple and useless sounds.

Just then the scene became clear. There was a space around the circular sculpture, which he noticed earlier to be a witch and wizard holding hands with free arms benevolently outstretched, and there, held up against the left leg of the wizard, was Draco Malfoy. The corner of his pale thin-lipped mouth was bleeding, his white blond hair in disarray, as he gazed with some of the truest hatred Price had ever seen at the boy who pinned him with his forearm to the statue behind.

Harry Potter. Wand raised, pointed directly in to Malfoy's left eye. He had never looked so unforgiving, so truly and murderously vengeful. Malfoy stood still, his eyes flickering between something near Harry's foot and the green eyes that bore into him with the most unflinching promise of pain.

Price felt strangely unified with the crowd at this moment, mouth agape in complete disbelief, the silence both terribly haunting and utterly deafening. Finally he stumbled forward, more out of instinct than any kind of mind-to-body thought process. As he stepped forward he regained himself, walking closer towards the boys, words formulating with viscous inaccuracy in his mind.

"Wha-"

He stopped.

He hadn't seen.

How could he possibly have seen?

There on the stone floor near Harry's feet, were the bodies of his two friends. Miss Granger and Mister Weasley. Faxon's mind reeled as his hand reached towards his mouth. Then, with an undeniable wave of relief, he detected the movement of their chests and the steady rhythm of breathing.

"Breath! Life, thank god!" he rasped coarsely, suddenly finding himself leveling his wand at the two boys, his own breath steadying and his eyes taking on an odd gleam of serious control.

"Potter. Down. Now." He demanded, sensing the alien nature of strength and command in his own voice, and when it seemed as though Harry hadn't heard him, Faxon barked out a strong and visceral 'Expelliarmus', sending the boy's wand through the air and in to his outstretched hand, though it had not flown quite as quickly as Faxon would have expected.

Harry did not move, and instead seemed to lean harder on the arm that pinioned the Malfoy boy to the stone sculpture. Pocketing the two wands in his hands Price found himself taking confident strides towards the boys, feeling the strange sense of power that came from the billowing of robes from sharp movement, and with a concentrated amount of strength he had a hold of Harry from behind, his arm around his chest, and he pulled him back slowly but forcefully from the somewhat limp and seething form of his pale nemesis. This had been easier than Price had predicted, and while at first Harry gripped the wrist at his chest, attempting to loosen himself, Price was much sturdier than the tall and thin teen, and eventually won out. At this point Draco remained leaning on the statue, his thin and piqued face, angular and rodent-like in hatred, still contained a kind of self-satisfied anger.

Faxon eventually let go of Harry, gently pushing him back so he stood between the two boys, who were now at a safer distance. He turned to Draco, taking several strides towards him.

"What the hell just happened here?" He shouted, the entire Hall suddenly filling with his voice, many students jumping at the ferociousness they had never witnessed from their new charms teacher. Moments ticked past in irritating silence.

"Malfoy, I asked you a question…" He felt his voice lowering to a dangerous simmer, marveling at the now steady and calm beat of his own heart.

"WAKE UP, DAMN YOU, AND ANSWER ME!" He roared, stepping closer towards the pale young man.

Just as he began stepping determinedly closer, so at the very same time did Draco rush forward in a kind of confident and cold rage, catching the Professor unawares as they hit chest to chest, Draco's thin arms clutching Price around the middle with disturbing urgency. A voice shouted from above the crowd, another Professor alerted to the situation and no doubt making their way through the mass.

But that voice Faxon did not hear. All he heard was the heavy breathing of the Malfoy boy who clutched at him, which evoked an immediate visceral feeling of intense loathing and disgust, and the whispered words that rasped from the bleeding mouth at his ear.

"My Father sends his best."

In the next few seconds everything faded white, and eventually all Price could see were the memorized scenes of the tents and students against the black of his closed eyes.


End file.
